You.

I miss having a boy to call my friend.

I blame you.

If you hadn’t captured my imagination like you promised you would, perhaps on lonely nights such as these, I would just curl up, read a book and fall asleep. But my hair itches for your fingers to run through them. My ears miss your mouth singing it messages of how everything would be okay. My eyes yearn for the twinkle that would light up in the corner of its dark recesses. My nose longs for the musky scent of you. My mouth misses the little gurgles that escaped it every so often when you tripped on purpose. My hands ache for what once it held close.

I blame you.